If I Should Die (Joseph Stark) (34 page)

The next bullet struck him in the chest. All these months later he could still feel its path front to back, piercing him through, long healed yet fresh in the mind. Phantom-wound syndrome they said, like the sensations in his missing half-finger, like all those poor sods aching to scratch itches on lost limbs; at least his lived only in the dreams and confused awakenings.

At the time he’d just landed on his back where the bullet had carried him, knowing something was very, very wrong; he felt sick, and woozy, finding it harder to breathe, harder to concentrate. The fighting carried on around him as he lay staring up at cloudless blue. Gunfire and shouting. His heartbeats felt wrong. He was thirsty and oddly cold. And tired.

He closed his eyes and let go.

They say you don’t feel fear as the darkness closes over you, that your brain is too pumped with adrenalin and denial. Stark couldn’t say. He remembered only the sound of rapid heavy-calibre shaking him awake. The Taliban positions were being raked mercilessly. Turning his head, he picked out the spitting insect silhouette of an Apache attack helicopter. The cavalry. Good. He closed his eyes again.

Then there were boots beside him, soldiers dragging him, faces crowding round, shouting and swearing at him, slapping his face, hands and bloody field dressings, a tourniquet tightening on his left thigh. He remembered being told repeatedly that he was going to be okay. He remembered asking about Collins and Gaskin, not recognizing his own voice and getting no answers. He remembered opening his eyes in the medevac helicopter, the lips of the medic moving as she spoke, the grave look on her face and the hot draught through the window as they lifted into the sky and raced to Camp Bastion. And after that, nothing.

The full citation, published in supplement to the
London Gazette
,
had stated:

Acting Sergeant Stark’s quick thinking in extracting the vehicle from the killing zone saved the lives of all who survived, while his courage was demonstrated further in volunteering to return for the fallen casualty, belittling his injuries to do so, in carrying Corporal Gaskin to safety, returning for the body of Sergeant Tyler and recovering the vital radio, all under withering fire, in returning for Major Collins and finally in shielding him while badly wounded and calmly laying down lethal fire against a determined enemy. It is also adjudged that the ambush was prelude to an assault on Combat Outpost McKay itself, timed for maximum effect before the scheduled relief-in-place, and that by effectively halting it Acting Sergeant Stark helped prevent greater losses.

For all this, they said, he had earned a VC: for ‘valour in the face of the enemy’. Stark could only wonder why he’d been singled out, for surely anger and bloody-mindedness had played more part than valour. He had done what he could, what he should, what any soldier would, and that would remain his opinion till his dying day.

As the Lord Chamberlain’s words echoed round the ballroom, subtle classical music came to life, the naval officer tapped the small of Stark’s back and he took five steps forward, turned left, bowed his head and stepped forward to stand before the Queen. A step higher than him, she took the bronze medal with its crimson ribbon from the plush cushion held out by a brigadier and, smiling warmly, hooked it on to the small brass hook secreted in the ribbon line above Stark’s left breast pocket.

She spoke a few quiet words to him, then held out a hand. He shook it gently, stepped back, turned to his right and limped out of the door opposite to where he’d come in as the next recipient’s name was called out.

Pierson must’ve darted through some back rooms to meet him. ‘This way,’ she whispered, leading him into another grand room.

‘How did I do?’ he whispered.

‘Bloody shambles. I’ll most likely face a court-martial.’ She held out his crutches.

‘Could I hang on to this a while longer?’ he asked, indicating the cane.

‘Don’t get too attached, and for God’s sake don’t break it. The Duke’s valet made me sign in blood.’

‘The Duke?’

‘Of Edinburgh.’

Stark froze. ‘You’re not serious?’

‘Where the hell else was I supposed to rustle up a respectable cane at such short notice?’ she replied, deadpan, but she was enjoying this. Stark swallowed hard. ‘Here …’ She handed him a letter stamped with his regimental badge.

‘What’s this?’

‘Your promotion.’ She adjusted his tie, brushed imaginary dust from his lapel, stepped smartly back, stood to ramrod attention and snapped off a salute. ‘Sergeant Stark, VC.’

Stark had expected the salute but it was disconcerting nonetheless – salutes were for officers, not enlisted men. But a salute was for the rank not the man and the VC was a rank of its own. He had
not
expected the stripe, and maybe it was weeks of tension finally letting up but he was deeply moved. He pulled himself together and returned the salute. ‘Sir!’

‘Ha, I knew I’d get you to show me the proper respect eventually!’ She laughed quietly. It was the first smile he’d ever seen on her and she was suddenly disconcertingly pretty.

A staff sergeant came next, wearing a George Cross. A bomb-disposal specialist, Pierson had told him, like Tyler. Now, that took balls. No reckless anger or stubborn stupidity to account for it. Just cool, methodical action under pressure, a trembling finger from death, again and again. After several soldiers had been badly injured by an IED he had, without waiting for protective clothing, disarmed three more IEDs so the injured men could be extracted in time to be saved. Stark wanted to say something, but what could you say?

Other recipients arrived one by one … Grand Crosses, Orders of this and that, knighthoods and gongs, all after Stark and the staff sergeant. Some nodded to him, none approached.

‘What did she say to you?’ asked Pierson. ‘Her Majesty?’

Stark hesitated. ‘She thought my name rather apposite.’

‘Stark?’

‘She commented on the Anglo-Saxon derivation.’

Pierson chuckled. ‘Simple, downright, inflexible?’

‘Something like that.’ The words the Queen had actually used were ‘strong, resolute and brave’. Stark knew this definition but was more comfortable with Pierson’s. He’d just nodded and smiled, like a simpleton; this whole thing still felt like a daydream.

Pierson pointed out Margaret Collins being escorted in through a small side door. In her hand she held a slim case containing her husband’s Distinguished Service Order, posthumous, received from the Queen in a private ceremony earlier. Head held high, every inch elegance and grace in a pale yellow dress, not a note of mourning black, she accepted a glass but didn’t drink. Champagne was hardly appropriate. Stark heard Pierson tut. No one approached Margaret, leaving her to her feelings, no doubt. Stark thought she looked lost, so excused himself from Pierson and went to join her.

‘Joe.’ She smiled, taking in his stripes. ‘Promotion?’

Stark waved the envelope. ‘Ink’s still wet.’

‘Then congratulations,
Sergeant
.’

‘Thanks. How are you holding up?’

Her smile tightened. ‘What was it you boys say, “rule one”?’

‘Always ditch your mates for a shag?’ suggested Stark, jokingly. That was rule one when you were out on the pull – if successful you went ‘missing in action’ without a word, no questions asked till you’d made your escape and reported back to camp.

‘Perhaps the other rule one.’

‘Quite right, ma’am.’

‘Sergeant Stark, with all due respect, if you call me ma’am again I’ll shove that medal up your arse.’

‘Please don’t. The insurance company would send in a retrieval team.’ He wasn’t kidding: Pierson had told him to insure it for a million, minimum. Indeed, he was to be given a replica of regular, non-Sebastopol bronze to wear so the other might be locked away.

She chuckled. ‘I understand that servicemen of any rank must now salute you.’

‘That’s tradition, not requirement, and to be honest, I’m not sure it applies now I’ve left the service.’

‘You’re still a reservist, still in uniform.’

‘Pending medical discharge.’

‘They’re fools to let you go.’

‘It was my decision.’

‘Yes,’ she said seriously. ‘Time to move on, eh?’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Say that one more time and I shall slap you. My husband died doing what he loved and believed in. So, on his behalf …’ She snapped off a smart salute, her serious expression betraying nothing of what it cost her.

It was perhaps the bravest act Stark had ever witnessed. In that moment the weight of the small bronze cross on his breast took on its rightful significance and the last of his self-concerned reluctance evaporated. A medal was to be worn with pride, not just for those who stood and those who fell, but also those who loved them. He returned the salute, sharp, brief, but something of his deep sadness must have shown through.

‘Now now, none of that.’ Margaret blinked brightly. ‘You’ll set me off too.’

Pierson materialized at their side. ‘Forgive my intrusion. I wondered if perhaps you might both prefer to wait somewhere quieter.’ She had a prescient knack for timing. Stark’s hip ached and his leg was beginning to tremble.

Pierson led them to a quiet room with comfortable chairs. On a silver tray stood two crystal tumblers. She relieved Margaret of her untried champagne. ‘Gordon’s and tonic for Mrs Collins, ice and lime. Two fingers of Royal Lochnagar for you, Sergeant, no ice.’ Stark smiled at her unfailing attention to detail. When he tasted the whisky, doubly so.

She left them to their thoughts. They didn’t chink glasses. Margaret sipped hers with an appreciative sigh. They asked who each had brought as guests but were mostly happy to sit in silence until Pierson returned to usher them out for the photographs.

The huge courtyard was bathed in sunshine. The palace photographer and a phalanx of assistants were already busy marshalling recipients. One guided Margaret smoothly away.

‘Do try to stand up straight for the cameras, lest my court-martial end in a firing squad,’ said Pierson, taking one last chance to readjust his faultless uniform. ‘Talking of which …’ She pointed.

There were his mum and Louise in their new hats and dresses. They hadn’t seen him yet.

Stark’s smile froze and faded into shock.

Kelly wore a broad-brimmed cream hat and a stunning sky-blue dress that fitted like a glove. Elegant and poised, she glowed.

Stark opened and closed his mouth several times.

‘You’re welcome,’ said Pierson, her starchy façade barely concealing her amusement.

‘How …?’

‘Detective Sergeant Millhaven. A romantic soul and a force to be reckoned with, much like myself. Miss Jones’s exasperation with you had commendable momentum, but after the depth of your endearing stubbornness was made clear to her she went away and had a good long think. Of course, your mother and sister colluded most willingly.’

Stark was speechless. ‘Thank you,’ he managed eventually. ‘I think.’

Pierson nodded. Enough said.

Stark shook his head. Awkward conversations loomed. Talking of which … ‘There is something else you might do for me,’ he said. She waited for him to elaborate. ‘Alan Maggs. Formerly Corporal Maggs, Two Para. You know who I mean?’

‘I don’t spend my waking hours with my head up my arse, Sergeant.’

‘He’ll need a helping hand.’

Her expression did not exhibit enthusiasm. Maggs’s widely reported courtroom outburst had burnt every bridge, except perhaps one. ‘He once stood where I just stood, with the Queen hanging the Military Medal on his chest.’

Pierson looked unhappy. ‘I’ll do what I can,’ she said finally. Knowing what he did of her tenacity Stark suspected that that was far more than Maggs had any right to expect. ‘Can you manage on that?’ she asked, indicating the cane.

‘God, I completely forgot. You need to give it back.’

‘Actually the Duke just bent my ear. He says it’s yours.’

‘What? No, I couldn’t …’

‘Perhaps we should go and find him so you can refuse him in person. As well as being the second highest royal in the land he is also a colonel-in-chief a dozen times over.’

‘Perhaps not,’ conceded Stark.

‘Perhaps not. I’ve tucked your crutches away until you need them. You will tell me when you need them. You will suppress your mulish streak in this regard. Understood?’

‘Why, Captain, I never knew you cared so passionately.’

She harrumphed. ‘I’m under strict orders to prevent you over-exerting yourself.’

‘My mother.’

‘Miss Jones. She was quite firm on the matter.’

‘I’m fine, honestly.’

‘She said you would say that. She also said that if I didn’t get you to pace yourself she’d hunt me down and kill me. Why she’s so keen for you to save your strength is a question I’ll leave you to broach. Perhaps she’s looking forward to torturing you to death herself. She remains quite exceptionally peeved with you.’

‘Comforting,’ replied Stark.

Kelly turned and smiled her knowing smile.

His mum was already bustling over. ‘There he is, my boy!’ She kissed his cheek, then busily rubbed away the lipstick with her hanky.

‘Does this mean I’m forgiven?’

‘Promise you’ll never do anything so bloody stupid ever again and then ask me. You must’ve got it from your father. And where are your crutches? Now, come on, it’s time you formally introduced me to that lovely girl of yours.’

‘She’s hardly my girl – the last time I saw her she dumped me.’

‘A lot’s happened since then. Now come on!’

What had happened? She hadn’t visited or called. Maybe she’d been prevented, or maybe it was part of the Machiavellian conspiracy she’d joined against him. Before he could find out, however, one of the photographer’s assistants diverted him to pose with Gaskin. Stark hadn’t seen the corporal since Selly Oak when he’d still been on crutches. His limp was all but gone. Grinning in crisp number-twos and glittering Military Cross, he looked a million miles from the gruff, weather-beaten veteran who’d set off from COP McKay with Stark all those months ago.

Then, to Stark’s immense pride, Margaret appeared and posed with him, holding open the DSO medal case for the camera. She kissed his cheek before going to pose with her husband’s CO. For the rest of the day Stark never once saw her left unattended.

Finally the assistant set about arranging him into various familial configurations. Kelly stood to one side, but his mother had other ideas. ‘Oh no you don’t. In you go!’ she said, bustling Kelly into the frame beside him.

Kelly took his arm and they posed together. Alone at last. Stark couldn’t think what to say. Kelly just smiled for the camera.

‘Come on, Louise,’ said his mother, brightly. ‘Time to touch up our mascara. I want to see what the loos are like in the Queen’s house!’ Taking Louise’s arm she steered her away from Stark and Kelly, adopting the unashamed unsubtlety of mothers the world over whose sons have
finally
brought home a nice, normal girl.

‘I like your mum,’ said Kelly, watching them go. ‘Very outgoing. Pity you don’t take after her more.’

Stark sighed. ‘So she keeps telling me.’ Was this the lowest point,
he wondered, or did the universe have anything more excruciating to offer?

‘Still,’ Kelly added, her gaze wandering around the architectural finery. ‘Not bad, I suppose, as first dates go.’

And there, glowing before him, the door to redemption. ‘This wasn’t quite what I had in mind.’

‘Why was that?’

‘I suppose I wanted you to like me for myself.’

‘You don’t think that cross is part of who you are?’

Stark looked for his usual self-rationalization, all those words and excuses, but Margaret’s salute had exposed them as chaff. And, besides, looking into Kelly’s crystal-blue gaze he knew for a fact that she would see straight through the lot. Her eyes were the exact shade of her dress. ‘You are quite the most beautiful woman I have ever seen.’

She blinked, blushed, smiled broadly but shook her head. ‘Nice try.’

‘A friend of mine once said that when cornered I use truth like a grenade.’

‘To cover your escape.’

‘This time I think I’ll fight it out.’

‘Hmm.’

‘Why didn’t you call?’

‘I did have quite an eloquent bollocking planned, but I was persuaded to pause for thought.’

‘For weeks?’

‘You’re a conundrum.’ She looked serious. ‘I had no idea whether you even wanted to see me. Eventually I decided you were probably just being stubbornly male again.’

‘
You
dumped
me
, I thought?’

‘Typical boy … You never know when to read between the lines.’

No, thought Stark, we
could
use a little help there. ‘And after that?’

‘I figured you had enough to contend with. And Fran and Wendy thought you’d see the funny side.’

‘Wendy?’

‘Captain Pierson.’

‘
Wendy!
’

‘She told me to tell you to stop being a tit. Sound advice, I thought.’